


Are You All Right?

by wordsthatkeepyouhome



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach and Reunion, Sherlock being concerned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsthatkeepyouhome/pseuds/wordsthatkeepyouhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Sherlock asked the question, John didn't think too much of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You All Right?

The first time Sherlock asked the question, John didn't think too much of it. They were outside Roland-Kerr Further Education College, amidst police cars and London's finest. The night was painted with yellow tape and bright white-blue flashing lights. A crime scene.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock had known from his deductions who the mysterious shooter was. John had killed the cabbie. John had saved Sherlock's life. He didn't know and didn't quite understand why he killed for this man he barely even knew. Had the man with the umbrella been right?  _You're very loyal, very quickly._  Had John decided to trust Sherlock Holmes?

He fixed his eyes on Sherlock's face. There was something foreign, something alien about it – not just the planes, the angles and cheekbones. No. If John didn't know any better, if he hadn't been told on two separate occasions that night that Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends and that he was a psychopath, he'd say that Sherlock was  _concerned_.  _Actually_ concerned. John at that point couldn't fathom the careful ease with which Sherlock had accepted the fact that he had committed murder. He realized that he didn't have to hide – in fact he couldn't hide even if he wanted to – behind knitted jumpers and the careful façade of not being dangerous, of not being a war veteran. It was all right. John was all right and he had said so. That night John had walked with Sherlock Holmes and had seen the battlefield. The adrenaline coursed through his veins and his limp had vanished. He hadn't felt this all right in a while.

* * *

Sherlock had identified himself as a high functioning sociopath and John was slowly realizing what that meant. Someone was playing a game with Sherlock, leaving him puzzles, gambling with human lives. It was sick and twisted and John was horrified, but Sherlock had relished every moment and had lit up like a child on Christmas day.

"There are lives  _at stake_ , Sherlock, actual  _human_  lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?

"Nope."

"Then I will continue to not make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes.  _Very_. Is that news to you?"

John couldn't understand how such a great man, how such an extraordinary human being could be so heartless and uncaring. The detective inspector had once expressed the hope that Sherlock would someday be a good man and John hadn't understood it then. But now, here in the living room of 221 B, watching Sherlock positively wired and excited with the prospect of another puzzle, hearing him say those words, he finally understood. John was a soldier. He was essentially a killing machine and he had made use of those skills, of his training on multiple occasions.  _I've killed people._  But that didn't stop him caring. He was still a doctor after all. Yet here was a man he had chosen to trust, chosen to follow, to save, to kill for and he was fundamentally a machine. A thinking computer. Sherlock's hard drive metaphor for his brain seemed to have an added layer of meaning now. Sherlock was cold, calculating, mechanical-  _No._  John refused to believe it. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. He was a hero-

" _Don't_  make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

John wanted to prove him wrong. If he could only achieve one thing in his lifetime, John wanted it to be this. A few nights later, he'd achieve his goal.

Moriarty. Jim Moriarty. John now had a face and a name to put with the insanity that had plagued him and Sherlock for the past couple of days. He was heading over to Sarah's when he was ambushed and a bomb was strapped to his chest. He was given an earpiece and specific instructions to repeat exactly what was said. He stepped out, found himself beside a swimming pool and turned to face his friend. The soldier in him was already strategizing and devising tactics for their escape.  _If the bomb does explode…_ John threw a glance at the pool,  _yes it would have to do._ Somehow, they would survive this. Or at least  _Sherlock_  would. John had to believe that.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming."

John knew the implications of what he'd just said. He hoped Sherlock knew Morse code, surely that was relevant information. More relevant than the solar system, John would have to concede. And so he blinked out the message as if his life depended on it.  _S.O.S._  And their lives probably did depend on the outcome. Moriarty was making Sherlock believe that John was behind it all. He didn't miss the look that crossed Sherlock's face. First, hurt, then disbelief.  _You do care, you idiot._  Under different circumstances, when their lives weren't in peril, John would have gloated. But the sensation was short-lived, as he watched Sherlock slowly stepping towards him, head still shaking. A silent, but vehement  _no_.

Jim Moriarty then emerged from the shadows. The consulting criminal meets the consulting detective.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock had asked him, a gun pointed at Moriarty as he slowly made his way towards the both of them.

"You can talk, Johnny boy."

He nodded and stayed silent, waiting for any opportunity to turn the odds in their favour. As long as he could get Sherlock out, everything would be fine. Nothing else mattered.

He grabbed Moriarty from behind. He pinned Moriarty's throat with his right arm and locked him arm behind his back with his left, pinning Moriarty to himself. "Sherlock, run!"

He didn't.

A silent exchange passed between the two of them.

_Why?_

_I'm not leaving you._

They were in this together.

John had released Moriarty when a red dot had appeared right in the middle of Sherlock's forehead. There was nothing else he could do.

"If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the  _heart_  out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

If John had blinked, he would have missed it. That almost imperceptible glance Sherlock threw in his direction. He might have imagined it. He might have denied it, but he didn't. here was Sherlock. Hours ago, he had seemed like a machine. 'Caring was a mistake. Caring was a disadvantage.' Yet he cared all the same. For John. Cared enough to not leave him behind. And that meant everything.

"All right? Are you all right?"

Sherlock had rushed to remove the bomb from John. They were both alive because of a whim, some random flight of fancy. He was flustered, almost panicked and John had never seen him this way before. It gave him a refreshing wave of warmth and comfort after this dreadful night.

A thought had now fully formed in John's mind and he smiled.

_Sherlock, you're human after all._

* * *

John was scared out of his wits. Someone, some _thing_  was stalking him inside one of the laboratories of a secret military base. John could hear panting, growling and even drooling as well as the soft clicks of claws on linoleum. The air seemed charged with electricity, alternately too dense and too thin; John couldn't breathe properly. The fear moved like water in his lungs and John knew he had to hide, had to escape. He dove under one of the covers and into this huge cage, pushing his back into the corner.  _Pick up, Sherlock. Pick up the phone._

Relief washed over him at the sound of the deep, baritone voice on the other end of the line.

"It's here, Sherlock. It's in here. With me. Get me out, Sherlock. You've got to get me out. Now, Sherlock, please."

John's voice was a broken whisper. He was painfully aware of his heart pounding against his rib cage. The sounds of his shallow breathing seemed deafening to his ears. He covered his mouth with his hand to dull the sound. John thought of anything else he could do to be invisible, anything to be undetectable.

A shadow passed his field of vision and John could feel an uncomfortable lump in his throat as his heart leapt. John hadn't known fear like this. The sheet covering the cage was roughly pulled aside and for a moment, John thought  _'Oh God, this is it. This is how I die. Mauled by a hound.'_  For a fraction of a second, he had wished for the sun and the sand, the explosions and the bullets.

The room is suddenly flooded with light and there was Sherlock's face.

"Are you all right?"

John didn't register the brief contact Sherlock's hand had made with his shoulder. He didn't realize in his haste to get out of that damn cage how he had somehow managed to shrug off his friend's concerned gesture.

* * *

John had no idea what was going on, why Sherlock was on the roof, why he was dangerously close to the edge. He had no idea why someone had called him up and told him that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, why anyone would lie about something like that. John couldn't understand, something in his mind just wouldn't click into place. Because it was simply an impossibility. There was no way, and of this he was absolutely certain, that Sherlock would even consider committing suicide.  _No fucking way._

"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we  _met_. The  _first_  time  _we_  met. You knew about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock laughed, hollow and mirthless. It scared John.

John's mind was working in overdrive; he could picture cogs and wheels turning as fast as they could, trying to figure out what the bloody hell was going on. Because Sherlock wouldn't… he couldn't…  _do_  this. There had to be another reason, something John hadn't realize yet. Something that would be so obvious to a man like Sherlock, but so painfully out of reach to an  _ordinary_  man like John.  _Ordinary_ , he thought to himself disdainfully, giving himself a mental kick.  _Figure it out, he's got to be telling you something. Was it a code? Was there anything unusual at all?_  John shook his head. The whole thing on its own was already completely out of character.

"Please, would you do this for me? This phone call. It's um, it's my note. What people do, don't they? Leave a note.

"Leave a note, when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't- SHERLOCK! Sherl-"

The name died on his lips as his eyes followed his friend as he jumped, as he fell. John ran and made his way to Sherlock's side, but he was roughly bumped from behind by a man on his bike. John hit the ground, landing on his bad shoulder. His temple grazed the coarse and uneven gravel and he closed his eyes in an effort to brace himself from the pain. The feel of the gravel – cool from the weather – against his skin was a welcome distraction from the grief that and the loss that threatened to take hold of him. He refused to let them. Oddly enough, he was waiting for something. A voice, thick and low with concern, and those four little words.  _Are you all right?_

But all he could hear was the ringing in his ears, and the lingering echo of Sherlock's goodbye and John screaming his name.

* * *

Eighteen months had passed and John still didn't have any answers. Talking to a headstone was a pointless endeavor, John had realized, but the routine calmed him in a way. Although the media plagued him with incessant interview requests, he rejected them all. There was only his blog and the words, "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." There was nothing left to say. But that wasn't entirely true.

There were so many things John wished he  _could have_  said. So many other things he wished he could take back. His mind replayed his last moments with Sherlock face to face, when John had called him a machine. John had lived with this regret and carried it with him wherever he went. Not that he went out anymore, much to Mrs. Hudson's and Greg's concern. London just seemed so quiet and so dead without Sherlock to take him through the side streets and _rooftops_. He gave an involuntary shudder at the word. The image of Sherlock jumping off that ledge was etched beneath his eyelids. It haunted him in his every waking and sleeping moment. In every blink, in every breath, there was no rest for John.

Sherlock had known the streets of London like the back of his hand. And without him, the city just seemed like a stranger to John. What was more painful was the fact that John now seemed like a stranger to himself. He had gotten so use to chases, the adrenaline and the thrill of life with Sherlock that he could no longer adjust to how life was before he had met him. There was no going back to that boring existence, to that lonely, limping and purposeless John. But try as he might, he could not stop the limp from slowly creeping back, although stubbornly, John still refused to use his cane.

One day, he came back to the flat after a short trip to the grocery to find Sherlock's violin in plain view, propped up against Sherlock's chair. John had kept it safely hidden away in Sherlock's bedroom after he had died. Mycroft had refused to take it, maybe knowing that John would want to keep it for himself. Some days when he would feel incredibly lonely, he'd take it out and play with the strings as gently as possible, not wanting to ruin it in any way. Sometimes, he would try to imitate how Sherlock had held the instrument before, resting it against his shoulder and the side of his neck. Somehow, in doing that, John didn't seem so alone. On rare occasions, his memory obliged him by recalling a piece Sherlock would often play whenever he had one of his nightmares and John could still hear it clear in his head as if Sherlock himself was playing.

But he had not brought it out recently. John was sure. A movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention and John's bad leg gave out beneath him. His memory had never created an illusion of Sherlock before, a perfect and ghostly apparition, although he had wished for it on multiple occasions.

Sherlock walked towards and John deduced that he was probably asleep and dreaming.  _Never let me wake up from this._

He held out a hand to motion Sherlock to stop. He didn't want his friend to disappear, like smoke, like vapour. John didn't know the parameters and the rules of this dream, and he'd rather not risk touching Sherlock lest he faded away.

Sherlock stood there, a confused and worried expression on his face.

"John, are you all right?"

He smiled at those words, "You don't know how much I've missed you asking me that. This must definitely be a dream then? Some sort of wish fulfillment? Am I allowed to touch you? Will you disappear?"

"John, you're wide awake. This is real. I'm not dead."

John laughed now. "One more miracle for me, eh? This is honestly the best dream I've ever had."

"You're not dreaming. I'll prove it." Sherlock made a move to reach for John and reflexively John grabbed his wrist to stop him. It took him by surprise when his hand made contact. _Solid, definitely solid._

"John, I'm so sorry. But I'm really here, I promise. I'm not dead. It was all a trick. Just a magic trick."

"Shhhh," John said softly, his mind still coming to grips with what was happening. John wanted it to be real, wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to be alive. Right now, he didn't care about Sherlock faking his death, and making John believe it. Right now, he didn't care about the grief and the absolute torture he went through in the past eighteen months. For one bright moment, everything was in perspective and John knew what he wanted to do, what he had wanted to do for a while now. And although he was still on the fence about whether this was a dream or reality, he didn't want to let go of this opportunity.

He squeezed Sherlock's wrist and gently tugged, pulling Sherlock down to his height, kneeling on the floor. He let go of his wrist and placed it on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock leaned into it, enjoying the contact. John's eyes took in the short hair, the tired eyes, and bruises along right cheek. He placed his other hand upon it gingerly, tracing the bruise that had now turned yellow against Sherlock's still pale skin.

"I'm sorry. For calling you a machine. That was the last thing I ever said to your face and I've regretted it ever since."

"John, I-"

"No. Let me finish. There was so many things I wish I could have said to you, and I can't believe it took you dying for me to realize how much I had wanted to say them. I wish I had told you what I thought about that night at the pool with Moriarty and how you didn't leave me behind. I wish I could have told you what it meant to me and _how much_ it meant to me. I wish I could have thanked you properly for accepting me and not even batting an eyelash when you deduced I had just killed a man. Being with you, living with you was honestly a lot like being able to breathe again. But the most important thing I wish I could have told you before you killed yourself was that I love you. I am  _fucking_  in love with you, Sherlock Holmes and how  _dare_  you kill yourself in front of me? How dare you tell me to keep my eyes fixed on you? I  _hate_  you so fucking much for putting me through that, but I'd forgive you in a heartbeat if you could please just not be dead. Would you do that just for me?"

John touched his forehead to Sherlock's as if the effort to say those words had taken all of him. He had no strength to hold back the tears brimming in his eyes. They fell, tracing the contours of John's face, down to his chin. Some escaped from the corner of his eyes and landed on Sherlock's bruised cheek. Sherlock tentatively raised his hand and touched John's face, wiping away the tears with his thumb.

"Yes. I'd do that for you, John. I'd do anything for you. It's really me. Please… don't cry. I'm sorry."

John didn't care anymore what was real and what was not. He'd find out sooner or later. John, with his forehead still touching Sherlock's, kissed his nose. His lips left a trail of kisses, across his cheek, the yellow bruise, moving down along his jaw line and then finally, Sherlock's lips. The kiss was slow at first, exploring, testing, and then eighteen months of longing burst forth and it was all tongue and breathless and fantastic and wonderful. They both broke away at the exact same time, catching their breaths, their foreheads touching again. John's hand on the back of Sherlock's head.

"This better be real, because if it isn't, I might just have to go to your grave, dig you up and kill you again."

Sherlock laughed. And John did too.

"Where have you been?" John asked quietly.

"Abroad. Everywhere. Taking down Moriarty's web."

"Why did you…?"

There was so many ways that question could have ended, but Sherlock knew exactly what John meant. And John could read the answer in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock died to protect John. To keep him safe. The rest of the conversation didn't need saying, but John knew some things were better with words. Someday, Sherlock would tell him the full story. He had that to look forward to.

"You were abroad then? How did you manage to still stay so pale?" John asked, jokingly.

"Might be a genetic defect or-"

"You're not defective. You're perfect," John cut him off while planting a quick kiss on his lips.

"I'm clearly not. I'll make this up to you, John. I- why are you laughing? Are you all right?"

John couldn't help it. He couldn't stop the smile forming on his lips, couldn't stop the laughter from escaping his mouth. He was just so happy.

"I'm better than all right."

John stood up, pulling Sherlock with him. He pressed his body against Sherlock's and Sherlock lowered his mouth to meet John's. Neither of them ever wanted to let go. They stood there, kissing for a long while, until John finally had the insight to ask, "Yours or mine?"

Without skipping a beat, Sherlock answered, "Mine's closer."


End file.
